


The Eagle and Ganymede

by Verecunda



Category: Eagles of the Empire - Simon Scarrow
Genre: Age Difference, Ancient Rome, Bath Houses, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Orgies and Bacchanals, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-20 14:51:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19994020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda
Summary: Imperial Secretary Narcissus has another mission for Centurions Macro and Cato: to infiltrate the inner circle of a city official whose hedonistic lifestyle is merely the front for something more sinister. Only this time, for the two friends, going undercover leads to the revelation of something far more intimate than another plot against the Emperor.





	The Eagle and Ganymede

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Happy RMSE, exchequered! Thank you for such an inspiring prompt. I had an absolute ball writing this, and I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Many thanks to flowerdeluce for betaing. Any and all historical blunders are all my own fault.
> 
> Set between _The Eagle’s Prophecy_ and _The Eagle in the Sand_ , so spoiler-free for the most recent books in the series.

“Here we bloody well go again,” muttered Macro, as he and Cato found themselves standing once more in Narcissus’ office at the heart of the imperial palace. He snorted and folded his arms across his chest. “Might at least’ve let us have a breather before sending us to face certain death again.”

Cato sent him a swift elbow in the side as the Imperial Secretary closed over the doors to his inner sanctum and came back to sit behind his desk. For a long moment he simply regarded them both over his folded hands, a faint smile on his lips. A smile that promised nothing good for them. Cato could sense how tense Macro was beside him and knew that his friend shared his unease. After all, the last time they’d been summoned into Narcissus’ presence, it had involved a gang of Praetorians kicking their door in at the crack of dawn. This time, however, they’d been found out at their new place on the Aventine by a discreet palace slave who had begged their pardon with perfect courtesy, before informing them that the Imperial Secretary desired an interview with them. Experience had taught them that Narcissus didn’t hesitate to use a heavy hand where they were concerned, and there was something about this new softly-softly approach that gave Cato a decided chill.

“Centurion Macro. Centurion Cato. I trust I find you both well.”

“Oh, just dandy,” replied Macro. “Still just waiting on that posting you promised us last time.”

Narcissus’ smile never wavered, but his eyes flashed. “Mind what you say, Centurion. A death sentence which has been revoked can just as easily be reinstated.”

That was more than enough to make Macro stand rigidly to attention and clamp his mouth shut. Every line of him was taut with barely-contained rage, and he stared back at the Imperial Secretary with mute - but very palpable - fury. Quickly, before he could do anything that might endanger their fragile reprieve any further, Caro interjected, “What’s this all about, sir? I take it there’s something else you have in mind for us.”

Narcissus nodded. “Just so. It’s a regrettable fact that there are many factions out there that threaten the stability of the Empire, and as you know, it falls to me to eliminate them. Does the name Lucius Hortensius Aelianus mean anything to either of you?”

They shook their heads.

“I thought not. But it’s a name I intend you both to become intimately familiar with. He’s a minor official in the city, an aedile. But it’s his unofficial business I’m most concerned with.”

Cato caught Macro’s eye and saw the same suspicion and dread that he himself felt. Once again, they were about to be plunged into the murky, treacherous currents of high politics.

“So why do you need us, sir?” he asked. “Surely if he’s in the city, it must be easy enough to have him watched.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” said Narcissus, with a long-suffering sigh. “Unfortunately, watching him is proving rather more difficult than I might like. My investigations have already revealed that this Aelianus is linked to a conspiracy against the Emperor, but getting hold of proof is proving to be something of a challenge.”

“Proof?” Macro snorted. “Didn’t think you bothered with that sort of thing, sir.”

Cato winced, but Narcissus only gave the same thin smile. “Not when dealing with centurions fresh from the provinces, no, but when one is dealing with official parties, things do become rather more complicated, and one is often required to observe more of the - _ah_ \- formalities. The fact of the matter is, for all my efforts, Aelianus has so far remained one step ahead of my informers, and I can’t afford to waste much more time on him. I want the matter brought to a speedy conclusion. Hence why I’ve engaged the two of you once more.”

“I’m not sure I understand, sir,” said Cato, frowning. His head was spinning, struggling to gather together all the threads of intrigue that he and Macro had been caught up in over the last few years and fit this new one into the pattern. “How would we be of any use to you in this matter?”

“The fact that Aelianus and I both work in official circles makes the question of informants rather a thorny one. For all my discretion, there’s an unfortunately high chance that any agent I might employ from my own staff might already be known to Aelianus or his associates. Or, to put it another way: I have good reason to believe that he has agents in the Imperial household itself, which might very well sabotage my investigation. Which is why I’m ordering you both to undertake it for me. Two soldiers who have spent several months lying low in the Subura after coming straight from the most far-flung edge of the world are far less likely to be known to Aelianus than anyone I could employ for now. Your task, therefore, is to insinuate yourselves into Aelianus’ inner circle, gain access to his house, and discover what proof you can of his involvement with the conspirators.”

Macro gave a short, scornful bark of laughter. “Oh, yes! Because middle-ranking politicos regularly pal about with blokes on the centurions’ list. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, sir, but we don’t exactly move in the same circles as your aedile here. Not sure how you expect us to slip comfortably into his scene.”

“Oh, it shouldn’t be as difficult as all that,” said Narcissus, quite unruffled by Macro’s outburst. For a moment, Cato thought he caught a certain gleam in the Imperial Secretary’s eye, as if he were enjoying some private joke at their expense. But it was gone almost as once, if it had ever been there at all, and he went on, quite businesslike: “Aelianus can be quite… egalitarian in his associates. When he’s not superintending public buildings and the grain dole, he’s something of a playboy. I gather that in going easy on tax returns, he enjoys certain - shall we say - perks from the brothels under his remit, and he has a house on the Caelian where he regularly hosts parties. I understand they can grow quite… lively.”

“Good for him,” said Macro, “but even if this Aelianus of yours is a regular Bacchus, I can’t help but think a couple of centurions might stick out like a sore bloody thumb, even in the middle of all that.”

Narcissus coolly folded his hands before him on the desk, and - no, thought Cato, he _hadn’t_ imagined it: there was that gleam again.

“There is one way that two men might gain access to such a gathering without anyone asking questions.”

The silence that fell in the office was so complete, so thunderous, that for a moment Cato thought a hush had actually fallen down in the Forum below Narcissus’ window. Then he realised it was only the rush of his own blood in his ears, deafening him to everything else. The blood had also risen in his face, and he was piercingly aware of Macro standing next to him, suddenly rigid enough to snap, but didn’t trust himself to catch his eye.

Finally, after a long pause, he managed to falter out: “Sir, are you really suggesting that we pose as - as a couple?”

Narcissus was cool as ever. “Why not?”

“Why not?” Now Macro found his voice, and he did so with a vengeance, the echoes flinging themselves back from all the high corners of the room. “I’ll fucking tell you why not -”

“You forget yourself, Centurion.” Narcissus’ voice was toneless, but the menace beneath it was plain enough.

“Is this some sort of joke, sir?” asked Cato, even though he knew comedy wasn’t one of Narcissus’ usual talents.

“No joke, Centurion Cato, I assure you. It seems by far the easiest way to infiltrate Aelianus’ circle.”

“But me and Macro couldn’t -”

“On the contrary,” said Narcissus, “I thought you two would be ideal for the job. You’re already quite inseparable, one might almost think…”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” said Macro, eyes narrowing.

Cato, perceiving that there was a definite and very dangerous possibility that Macro might go for the Imperial Secretary’s throat, quickly cut across him: “I think we get the gist, sir.”

Narcissus gave a thin smile. “I’m sure you do. I’m also sure you know very well that whatever you might think you can or can’t do is of no concern to me. I’ve given you your mission, and you’ll carry it out, it’s as simple as that.”

Neither of them could offer any argument against that. Narcissus had them by the balls, and they all knew it.

“Good,” said Narcissus, as the moment passed by without challenge. “That’s settled, then. And there’s no need to panic. It’s only a cover story, after all. You don’t have to _do_ anything.” He smiled. “Unless you want to, of course.”

-

“Bastard,” spat Macro later, when they were sitting over a jar of wine in a tavern off the Forum. “He’s really landed us in the shit this time.”

“Yeah,” said Cato sullenly, staring into the dregs of his own cup. “And we can’t do a thing about it.”

“Bet it’s his idea of a joke. Typical fucking freedman, always looking to get the wind up proper Romans.”

Cato ignored a twinge of unease at that and focused his mind onto the problem before them: “The thing we have to do now is work out how we’re going to go about this. Get it over and done with. And it might be easier than we think. I’m sure not all paederasts can be fey Greek types.” His mind flickered back to the inscription he had found on Centurion Bestia’s old sword. 

One corner of Macro’s mouth gave a faint, grudging twitch. “I guess not.”

“And if there’s one silver lining, it’s that we’re in this together, not being forced to get cosy with strangers. We’ll probably be laughing about this when it’s all over.”

“No fear of that,” said Macro, back to scowling. “When we get out of this one, I intend to get well and truly shitfaced and put it out of my mind forever.” As if determined to make good on that scheme right away, he downed the last dregs of his cup in one go, belched loudly, and ran the back of his hand over his mouth. “Thank the gods the rest of the Second’ll never find out about this one…”

-

The first part of their mission, at least, was fairly straightforward. Before doing anything, they had to recce their target. Narcissus had given them in the name of a certain bathhouse in the Subura which Aelianus was known to frequent, and so they agreed to keep watch for him there. They found it down a narrow, crowded little side-street, seedy even by the standards of the Subura. Like most seedy bathhouses, it was more than half a brothel, its outer walls liberally scrawled with obscene graffiti that informed the casual passer-by what sort of services - beyond a mere wash and massage - they could procure for just a few copper coins inside. 

Aelianus himself was easy enough to pick out from the crowd. From their chosen lookout by the fountain across the street, Macro and Cato watched him emerge from his ornate curtained litter: a tall man with a handsome, rather aquiline face, and the careless, almost bored manner of the true aristo. He was accompanied by a retinue of personal slaves, which he whisked into the baths after him with a single imperious gesture.

“That’s our man,” said Macro. “Just as Narcissus described him.”

“A bit showy, isn’t he?” Cato remarked. “For a secret conspirator, I mean.”

“He is that,” agreed Macro. “Hard to imagine how he’d give Narcissus any trouble.”

“He’s obviously trickier than he looks. All this might just be a front. We’d better watch our step.”

There didn’t seem to be much point beating about the bush, so they agreed to make their first move the next day, to head into the baths and attempt to make contact.

That evening, Macro was sitting alone in their rented Aventine room - a bare, rather rickety place, but a definite step up from their last digs - and feeling increasingly on edge. The prospect of getting tangled up in murky politics again was bad enough, and the embarrassment of this charade they were expected to pull only made it worse. Not for the first time, and almost certainly not for the last, he found himself thinking he’d knock the Imperial Secretary’s teeth down his throat one day, if it was the last thing he did.

But even these considerations paled before the fact that he was concerned about Cato. The lad had been increasingly quiet and preoccupied since their briefing by Narcissus. This mission had cast an unexpected shadow between them, a reserve that hadn’t been there before. Usually, Macro would think nothing of giving his younger friend a friendly punch on the shoulder or a clap on the back, but during the last couple of days, he’d found himself holding back. With their roles in mind, casual physical contact like that suddenly seemed rather too near the knuckle, as if he really was some slobbering old lech. Which he wasn’t, of course.

His concern was increased ten times over by the fact that Cato should have been back by now. He’d headed out to get them something from the cookshop down the street. But that was well over an hour ago. Maybe it was just this bloody mission getting to him, but Macro suddenly found himself envisioning all manner of misfortunes that might have befallen him out there. Set on by thugs, maybe, or knocked on the head by one of those bits of masonry that regularly crumbled off Rome’s jerry-built tenements to brain innocent passers-by? 

Or - his throat went dry - what if someone had got wind of their mission? What if Hortensius Aelianus had noticed them staking him out this afternoon, and sent someone after Cato while he was alone?

His imagination was working itself up to fever-pitch, and he was on the verge of springing up and tearing out in search of him, when at last he heard Cato’s familiar tread out on the landing, then the door opened and there he was, awkwardly balancing their two mess-tins in one hand, and a cloth bundle in the other.

“Cato!” he cried, overtaken by a surprisingly sharp wave of relief at the sight of him. “Where the bloody hell did you get to?”

“Thanks for the help,” said Cato, pointedly shutting the door behind him with one foot, before crossing the few paces to their one wobbly little table and setting his things down. “I was just getting dinner, like I said.”

“You took your time.”

“Well, I went up to see Drusillus first.”

“Drusillus?” Macro blinked. “Drusillus up on the fifth floor? Why were you seeing him?”

“To get some things for going undercover.” Cato paused, and sent him a sidelong look. “You do know what he does, right?”

“Barman, isn’t he?”

“Barman at the Bona Dea,” said Cato, with great significance.

“Isn’t that the place by the docks that -?” Understanding dawned on him, and he flashed a look of deep suspicion at the bundle Cato had brought in.

Cato laughed. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing over the top. But I thought I could do with something else to wear. Somehow I reckon a catamite in army-issue clothes just isn’t going to cut it. So I asked Drusillus if he could loan me some things.”

Macro frowned. “Did you tell him what you were doing?”

“Of course not. And he didn’t ask. I think when you’re a professional Ganymede, you develop an appreciation for discretion on all fronts.”

Macro grunted.

They had their dinner at the table; then, while Macro was still polishing off the last of his, Cato took Drusillus’ bundle over to his bedroll and opened it. From where he was sitting, all Macro could see was a pile of various flimsy bits of cloth, which Cato laid out one by one, smoothing out the creases. He picked out one at random, and Macro turned away to give him some semblance of privacy as he changed into it.

“Well, what d’you think?”

Macro looked at him. He’d always been aware that Cato was on the beanpole side of things, but during their time in the bleak climes of Germany and Britain, he’d been mostly huddled up in heavy cloaks and breeches, which didn’t draw attention to the fact. But the tunic he was wearing now was an absurd, saffron-coloured wisp of nothing, which made it suddenly bloody impossible _not_ to notice. It bared his arms to the full, offered a generous view of his shoulders and throat, and the hem - which was probably short on the average-sized Drusillus - was beyond daring on Cato, hiked high above his knees and displaying a good deal of his long, skinny legs.

There was something more, too. Army gear had a sort of innate power, in that it conferred upon the wearer an aura of toughness. Divested of that, and decked out in the saffron scrap of nothing, it had the effect of making Cato’s long limbs look very fine, even delicate. That, along with his wide dark eyes, thick curls, and the essential sensitivity of his features, which even two years of soldiering in the wild north hadn’t been able to exorcise, made him look like exactly the sort of soft young thing that some dirty old sod would lose his head over. The thought sent a strange coiling sensation through his insides.

Too late, he realised he was staring, and that Cato was growing uncomfortable under his gaze. He shifted his weight self-consciously from one foot to the other, cheeks slightly pink, and prompted him again: “Well?”

Macro gave himself a hard mental shake, clearing the strange creeping daze that had suddenly come over him, and grinned. “Always thought you’d make a very pretty boy-toy to someone, Cato.”

Cato flushed even harder. “Piss off.” He swallowed, then went on, “We should probably think about aliases, just in case Aelianus or any of his friends have got to hear about any of the other things we’ve done for Narcissus in the past, and recognise our real names.”

Macro nodded. That, at least, was something that made sense in the middle of all this madness. “All right. I’ll be Manlius. Gnaeus Manlius Priscus. How’s that sound?”

“All right.” Cato nodded. “And I’ll be… what about Alexis?”

“Alexis? What kind of name is that?”

“Alexis,” said Cato, “was the name of the beloved of the shepherd Corydon in Virgil’s _Eclogues_ …”

“All right, all right,” said Macro quickly, waving a hand to fend off the literary lecture he could feel looming on the horizon. “Can’t you come up with something a bit more bloody normal?”

“Juventius?”

He narrowed his eyes. “That another one of your bloody poetry references?”

Cato’s own eyes gleamed. “Might be.”

“Fine. Juventius it is. Don’t suppose there’s many catamites out there who go by their real names anyway.”

The rest of the night was spent thrashing out the details of their cover story, then at last - far too late, it felt - it was time to hunker down for the night. Macro was looking forward to a good night’s rest, so he was less than thrilled to have it disturbed by Cato dragging his bedroll across the floor right up next to his own.

“What the fuck are you doing now, lad?”

Cato looked down, straightening his bedclothes, but even that couldn’t hide the way his face had coloured. “I thought we’d better get used to sleeping together.”

A very strange start went through Macro at that. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Well,” replied Cato, suddenly and oddly defensive, “for credibility. Getting used to being close together. We’re going to look like a very strange couple if we can’t stand to touch each other.”

Macro was about to reply that Cato obviously hadn’t met some of the married couples he’d known in his time, but something in the lad’s tone stopped him. So he _had_ noticed the lack of physical contact between them. Macro couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt at that, even as he cursed Cato for catching every bloody detail that went on around him. Nor could he deny that, this time at least, he had a good point.

“All right,” he muttered, “On you go, then.”

“Thanks,” said Cato drily, and finished arranging his bedding before climbing in. He shot Macro a grin that somehow managed to be evil and shy at the same time. “Want me to kiss you goodnight?”

Macro’s face went hot. “Get fucked.” He aimed his elbow at Cato’s head, and Cato ducked, chuckling. At that, Macro grudgingly subsided, and fell back against his own bedroll with a huff, determined to ignore him.

He lay awake for a long time, arms crossed beneath his head, staring up at the low ceiling and reflecting yet again on the sheer bloody absurdity of this latest fix they were in. Outside, the carts and wagons rumbled through the night, and now and again, close to hand, he’d hear the raucous voice of some drunk climbing the stairs of their tenement on his way home from the tavern.

It was only gradually that he realised that beside him, Cato’s breathing had slowed and deepened. Turning his head, he saw that Cato was out for the count, curled up on his side and snoring lightly. His face was turned inwards, towards Macro, and his features were all soft with sleep. At the sight of him like that, Macro felt a warm rush of affection and, unable to resist, reached out a hand to ruffle his hair. Cato stirred lightly, made a wordless little murmur in his sleep, and Macro smiled. His last thought, before he drifted off himself, was that maybe - just maybe - this wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

-

They showed up at the bathhouse early, with an aim to look as settled and inconspicuous as possible when Aelianus made his appearance. Inside, it was even more disreputable than the graffiti outside had suggested. The walls of the vestibule and changing-room were painted with murals of various couples engaged in a dizzying variety of sex acts which were certainly imaginative, even if Cato rather doubted that some of them were anatomically feasible. One depicted a muscle-bound man vigorously buggering an epicene youth: no sooner had Cato caught sight of that one than his gut gave a strange lurch, and he tore his gaze away, only to meet Macro’s eye. They both flushed, then glanced quickly away from each other. 

But that couldn’t last. After paying one of the scantily-clad attendants to keep an eye on their clothes and heading into the steamy, overcrowded tepidarium, they quickly saw that several patrons were accompanied by at least one attractive hanger-on, most of these dressed like Cato in little more than handkerchiefs, and carrying with them strigils, towels, oil-flasks, tweezers, ear-scoops, and all the assorted instruments of self-destruction that fashionable, well-to-do men brought to the baths with them. On the benches and at the poolsides, they were mostly employed in oiling, scraping, and massaging their older charges, and being subjected to various kisses and gropings on the side.

“Cato,” Macro muttered out the corner of his mouth, “stick close to me, all right?”

Cato gave a nervous smile, glad for Macro’s solicitude. “All right.” Then, thinking that if they didn’t want to stick out like a pair of actresses in the Senate, they’d better get into character, he brought one of Macro’s arms round his waist and smiled. “Lead the way.”

They pushed a path through the close-packed benches, through the dense, sweaty air, until they managed to find a space facing the main entrance.

“Might as well set ourselves up here,” said Macro, barely audible over the hubbub as he sat down. “We’ll be able to see him when he comes in. Can’t bloody miss him.”

“Good plan,” said Cato, slipping into place beside him. “And we might as well have a wash and a groom while we’re at it, eh?” He held up the oil-flask.

“Might as well,” Macro agreed, and held out his hand. “Pass me one of the strigils, will you, lad?”

Cato paused. “Well, I actually thought…” And oh gods, he could feel his face already growing warm, in a way that had nothing to do with the air in here. “I thought I should probably do the honours.”

“You what?” Macro leaned perceptibly away from him.

“Look around,” whispered Cato. “How many of the older set do you see taking care of themselves? Half of them have a _friend_ to do it for them. Have to start somewhere.”

Macro glared at him for a moment longer - then relented. “All right. Do your bloody worst.”

As Macro settled down, Cato swallowed the dry, nervous lump that had been growing in his throat, and tipped a quantity of oil into one hand. He rubbed his palms together to warm it, then laid them on Macro’s shoulders. At once, Macro went very tense.

“Sssh,” said Cato. Then, thinking he might as well make it look as convincing as possible, leaned in until his cheek almost brushed Macro’s to reassure him in an undertone, “It’s just me, remember?”

It was hardly the first time he’d helped Macro out in the baths, usually to help him get at the hard-to-reach areas, while Macro had often done the same for him. And between that and the fact that privacy was a rare commodity indeed in the legions, it was hardly the first time he’d seen his friend in a state of undress. But somehow, this charade - play-acting though it was - now made him suddenly, vividly aware of Macro’s body. Stocky, but strong and solid, his shoulders broad beneath Cato’s hands as they spread the oil outwards; his skin warm and smooth over the firm muscles beneath. He could feel the shape of them beneath his fingertips as he went, tense and hard at first, but slowly, slowly, growing more pliant as Macro relaxed against him, his ribs rising and falling steadily beneath Cato’s palms as he breathed. Cato found himself suddenly lulled towards the impulse to linger, to let his hands follow the subtle play of muscles beneath skin, or to touch the damp little curls that the humid air had pressed against the nape of his neck…

He frowned. These were things he must have seen, or felt, thousands of times before. Now, it was as if their assumed roles had forced them upon his attention. He felt overly warm, restive, and somehow… unsteady, as if the ground he was standing on - which had been solid underfoot just a moment ago - had suddenly grown soft and given way, and that one false step might send him pitching headlong into - what? His mind glanced away from it, and he gave himself a hard mental shake before casting about for something to say, some joke he could make that would anchor him back to reality.

“Gods, you’re hairier than a German. D’you not want to take advantage of the hair-pluckers while we’re here?”

“No I fucking do not,” growled Macro. Just at that moment, as if to emphasise his point, a piercing shriek rose from one of the alcoves set aside for the purpose, and a little ripple of laughter, half-amused and half-cringing, passed through the tepidarium.

Thankfully, Cato managed to finish scraping Macro down without further incident. There was still some time before Aelianus was due to appear, so they went for a plunge in the pools, before returning to their watch in the tepidarium. They shared out the food they had bought on the way - bread rolls, cheese, and a flash of cheap wine - then played draughts with a set that someone had left behind under the bench. They were halfway through their second game when there came a sudden commotion in the doorway, and they looked up to see Aelianus making his grand appearance, accompanied by his usual entourage. Two of his more brawny attendants were forcing a path through the crowd of bathers, bodily muscling aside those who weren’t quick enough off the mark.

“Make way for the aedile, make way there! Out the fucking road, you!”

Macro didn’t look at Cato, but nudged the man sitting next to him, a quiet middle-aged type with greying hair and the beginnings of a paunch above his towel.

“Bit late for the Lupercal, ain’t it?”

His neighbour gave a rather wry smile. “Oh, that’s Lucius Aelianus. He’s some magistrate or other, comes in every day about this time.”

“Oh. Bit cosy for him, isn’t it? Would’ve thought the Baths of Agrippa would be more his style.”

“Maybe be prefers to slum it with us commoners,” said the man, his mouth going even more wry. “The Senate and the People of Rome, and all that.”

“Oh, yes?” Cato piped up. “Fancies himself a bit of a republican, does he?”

He asked it lightly, jokingly. All afternoon, he’d been affecting a flirtatious, bantering way of speaking, praying all the while that he wasn’t coming across like a Greek boy in a bad pantomime. But he watched the man’s face as he spoke, wondering if Aelianus might have some reputation - or even some friends and supporters in this place.

But he was to be disappointed this time. Their neighbour just snorted and replied, “Fancies himself, all right,” then went back to scraping himself down.

Aelianus was apparently enough of a regular that after the initial commotion, those out of the two bodyguards’ immediate line of destruction simply went back to what they were doing, as the aedile and his retinue swept by. Macro and Cato watched him go, affecting looks of merely amused interest, as suited them as newcomers. As they watched, the bodyguards cleaved a route to the far side of the room, to one particular bench in the corner, which, from the looks of sullen resignation on the faces of the bathers who quickly vacated it, seemed to be his usual. The way now clear, Aelianus settled himself down for an arduous afternoon of being groomed and pampered by one body-slave, and being fed wine and little nibbles by another.

Macro reached out a hand, drew Cato in close, and whispered in his ear: “Guess where we’re sitting tomorrow.”

-

Cato questioned the wisdom of Macro’s scheme - it seemed likely to antagonise Aelianus, when their entire mission depended on ingratiating themselves with him - but Macro only smiled and tapped the side of his nose. 

“Trust me, lad, I have it all planned out.”

Which, mysteriously, didn’t reassure Cato in the least.

They arrived at the baths the next day with time and to spare, and first squeezed into a bench in the middle of the tepidarium. It was as crowded as before, and they’d barely been sitting there a few minutes before Macro started to fidget.

“No room to swing a fucking cat here,” he complained in a loud voice. Then, standing up to crane over the heads of the bathers, he exclaimed, “Hey, Juventius, there’s space on that bench over there by the wall. Run along and bag that, will you? I’ll be right behind you.”

Cato cast him a doubtful look, but obediently gathered up their things and wove his way through the press of bodies until he reached the bench Aelianus had claimed the day before, with Macro close on his heels. As soon as he was sitting down, Cato pressed into his side, wound his arms about his neck, and breathed in his ear:

“What the bloody hell are you up to?”

In reply, Macro laid a hand on his knee and squeezed. “Trust me.”

This time, they’d barely finished scraping themselves down when there came the same disturbance as yesterday.

“Here he comes,” murmured Cato, to which Macro gave a very slight nod. They did their best to look as if they were minding their own business, intent on nothing but their own ablutions, until a huge shadow fell across them, and a gruff voice said, “All right, sunshine, up you get.”

Cato, already on edge, had no need to feign the way his head jerked up. Macro, on the other hand, took his time in raising his gaze.

“What’s that, mate?”

Towering above them were the same two bruisers from yesterday. Ex-gladiators, Cato thought, both of them hulking slabs of muscle, meaty arms folded. One, dark-haired and Italian, had a mangled nose that had evidently been broken at least twice, while the second had the raw, blond look of someone from one of the wilder corners of Gaul. They both bore an impressive array of scars, swords at their waists, and a combined aura that screamed, “Don’t fuck with us!” An intimidating enough spectacle for the civilian bather, perhaps, but Macro, who had nothing but contempt for gladiators - except when he happened to have money on them - only grinned at them. Their expressions grew even more inimical.

“You heard us,” said the Gaul, in thickly-accented Latin. “Up you get, short-arse. This seat’s reserved for the aedile Lucius Hortensius Aelianus.”

“That a fact?” said Macro, and made a show of examining the wall behind him. “Hmm… nope. There’s something here says that M. Varro fucks like a stallion, but nothing about this seat, or your Lucius Hortensius Aelianus.”

This incurred the decided disapprobation of the two gladiators, who both stiffened in second-hand indignation at this insult to their master, and in a voice that promised murder, the dark one growled, “Might want to rethink that, mate. Lucius Aelianus is an aedile of the city, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll do as you’re bloody well told.”

Macro sneered. “Oh, yeah? Well, you can tell His Nibs that he can kiss my hairy arse.”

The two heavies instantly tensed up, eyes narrowing to slits and hands clenching into ready fists. At the same time, Macro leapt to his feet, staring them down. Cato hesitated, his instinct to get up and support him warring with the thought that he was better off playing the frightened Ganymede, but before any of them could make another move, a laugh sounded from behind the wall of muscle. A hand appeared to wave the two toughs aside, and there was Hortensius Aelianus, smiling broadly.

“Bravo!” he cried. “It’s been a long time since I saw anyone with the balls to stand up to Plato and Diogenes here.” He looked Macro up and down. “By Hercules, but you look like a man who can handle himself in a fight.”

Macro smiled coldly. “Just let those two guard-dogs of yours off the lead for five minutes, and I’ll give you a practical demonstration if you like.”

“I’m sure you would,” said Aelianus, still smiling. It was a pleasant enough smile on the surface, but at the same time, there was something about it that raised the hairs on Cato’s neck. “Sadly, however, I have need of my guards.” He held out a hand. “What do they call you, friend?”

Macro made a show of grudgingly accepting the aedile’s hand. “Gnaeus Manlius Priscus. Late of the Seventh Legion.”

They had chosen Macro’s assumed backstory with care, deciding that “Manlius” should have served in one of the legions that had initially rebelled under Scribonianus a few years ago. And, watching Aelianus’ face carefully, Cato saw the hoped-for interest spark in the aedile’s eyes.

“Oh? A legionary, eh? I might have guessed.”

“Six years standard-bearer to the Fourth Cohort,” said Macro, puffing out his chest and assuming an impressive tone of wounded dignity.

“Pardon me,” said Aelianus, with a gracious bow of his head. Then his eyes alighted on Cato. “And who’s this?” He smiled. “Another legionary?”

Cato felt his spine give the same instinctive stiffening it always did when anyone drew attention to his youth - then hastily reminded himself that as far as anyone else here was concerned, he was Macro’s toyboy, not a decorated veteran of the British campaign, and that it was in their interest that no one take him very seriously. Quickly then, he willed himself to relax, and gave an airy laugh.

Macro laughed too, slapping a hand on his thigh. The sudden contact sent a strange little tremor through Cato’s nerves. “No way. I picked this one up in a bar in Mediolanum on my way home. Been inseparable ever since, haven’t we, Juventius?” He squeezed Cato’s thigh affectionately.

Dimly perceiving that it was his turn to do some play-acting, Cato replied, in the most syrupy tones he could manage, “Oh yes. _Inseparable_ ,” and draped himself over Macro’s shoulders, looking up at Aelianus with a heavy-lidded smile to communicate just how inseparable.

Macro had minutely tensed in Cato’s arms, but he rallied quickly, and chuckled, bringing one hand up to hold onto his arm. With a conspiratorial glance, he said to Aelianus, “You know what these young ’uns are like, sir. They go mad for anything in uniform.”

“So I see,” said Aelianus, looking Cato up and down. “Well, I deeply apologise for disturbing your - ah - _recreation_ , gentlemen. I’ll take my leave.”

“No, no!” said Macro quickly. “Your two knuckleheads could’ve been nicer about it, but I know where I stand in the grand scheme of things. C’mon, Juventius, we should be on our way.”

“Oh, but I insist,” said Aelianus. “Stay, by all means. I’m sure there’s room enough for all of us.”

“Maybe next time, eh, sir?” said Macro pleasantly. “I’ll bring the wine.”

Aelianus laughed. “I’ll hold you to that, legionary.”

They gathered their things together, and made a show of leaving in a casual, unhurried fashion. Cato was aware all the time of the weight of Aelianus’ gaze still watching them, and pressed himself conspicuously into Macro’s side as they went. Macro responded by wrapping an arm around his shoulders. They were close enough that they could easily have spoken together without anyone overhearing, but even so, Macro waited till they had left the bathhouse entirely, where the noise of the street could cover them, before turning to him with a grin and saying, “We’re in.”

-

From there, it was a matter of treading carefully. They both agreed it was no good going in too fast, lest they rouse Aelianus’ suspicions, so they made no attempt to catch his attention the next day. But on the day after that, when they came into the tepidarium at a slightly later time, they found Aelianus already installed at his usual bench. He caught Macro’s eye from across the room, and raised a hand in greeting. Macro returned the gesture, then ushered Cato through to the caldarium. 

On the third day after their encounter, Aelianus invited them to sit with him, issuing the invitation as if he were bloody Jupiter himself issuing it from the very summit of Olympus.

“Manlius, my dear fellow! Please, I insist, come and take a seat.”

Macro made a creditable pretence of dithering, as if conscious of the great gap between their stations, before grinning broadly. “Don’t mind if I do, magistrate sir.”

He gestured to Cato and led the way over to the aedile’s bench. As they did, Aelianus shooed away one of his slaves and gestured to Macro to sit beside him.

“I do hope there are no hard feelings after our little misunderstanding the other day.”

“Already forgotten, sir.”

“Excellent.” Aelianus smiled. It was an easy, amiable smile that brightened his already handsome features and showed them off to full advantage. To any casual onlooker, it would probably be charming, but to Macro, it was all too easy to see the cool watchfulness of the eyes above, as if his true self was watching him carefully from behind that smiling front, and making it seem unnervingly mask-like. They couldn’t watch their step too carefully with this one, he decided.

“Dormouse?” Aelianus motioned to the silver platter held out by one of his slaves. “There’s plenty to go around.”

“Thanks,” said Macro, taking one. Then, as if an afterthought had occurred to him, he turned to Cato. “Here, lad, why don’t you go out and pick up a jar for me and the magistrate? Something good, mind, not that bloody cat piss you got us last time, or I’ll tan your arse for you.”

A glint appeared in Cato’s eyes, and in a voice that was practically _coquettish_ , he replied, “Is that a promise?”

 _That_ sent an unexpected image darting through Macro’s head, and with extremely alarming clarity. Heat flamed in his face, and at the same time, he felt a strange, plunging sensation deep in the pit of his stomach. He shifted where he sat, then cursed inwardly, terrified in case it gave them away. But Aelianus only laughed, enjoying the show.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” growled Macro, not entirely in character, “and just get the wine.”

Cato laughed - and Macro had the decided impression that _he_ wasn’t entirely in character either - then turned on his heel and left.

“Mouthy little imp, that boy of yours,” remarked Aelianus.

“He is that,” Macro agreed, and despite his mortification, a smile darted out at the corner of his mouth. “He has his uses, though.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Aelianus watched Cato’s retreating form, and an oleaginous smile appeared on his face that inspired in Macro the sudden urge to smash the bastard’s head into the faded mural of cavorting nymphs and satyrs just behind them. With superhuman restraint, however, he resisted the urge, and forced out a companionably lecherous chuckle instead.

“Tell me, Manlius,” said Aelianus, sitting back to look at him, “what on earth is a good, salt of the earth legionary like yourself doing in a den of iniquity like this?”

The question was unexpectedly direct, and Macro watched the aedile’s face carefully. Did he suspect? Suddenly he wished he hadn’t sent Cato away. He was always better at sussing these things out; he’d be able to give Macro some indication of whether there was more to the question than met the eye.

But right now, he was on his own. So, willing himself to appear as nonchalant as possible, he shrugged. “Just kicking my heels.” He sighed heavily. “Fourteen years with the Seventh, then I’m invalided out for bad eyes. Honourable discharge, but there’s been some bloody mix-up about my pension, so here I am, waiting for them to sort it out. Only I’ve been back in Rome nearly a month now, and I haven’t heard a sodding word about it.”

Aelianus tutted. “Dreadful. It’s shameful, truly, how the veterans of our legions are treated. You see them begging in the Forum, and out by the Capena Gate. Begging! By the gods, it’s a disgrace. I don’t know how our glorious Emperor can live with himself.”

Macro couldn’t help it: his eyebrows shot up. Given the political climate in Rome, with Narcissus and his agents everywhere, this was an extremely daring - or indiscreet - thing to say aloud. At first he was excited, thinking he’d found an opening sooner than expected - then he frowned, wondering suddenly if the oily bugger was playing some deep game with him.

Some of his consternation must have shown in his face, one way or another, for Aelianus laughed again. “Your face, soldier! Don’t worry, whatever you might have heard, we can talk pretty freely here in the Subura. That’s why I value it so much, earthy though it may be. I assure you, there are many who feel for the men in your position.”

Macro’s frown deepened, and he hoped he sounded decently bewildered as he said, “Sir?”

But Aelianus shook his head. “This isn’t the time to speak of such things - not now, at any rate. Can I tempt you to another dormouse?”

-

Nearly two weeks passed in this way, with Macro and Cato becoming regular guests of the aedile at his favourite bench, and their afternoons passed in a blur of games of dice and draughts, lots of wine and dainty nibbles, and a neverending stream of conversation. On the surface, it was mere small talk, but Aelianus asked “Manlius” a good many questions about his service with the Seventh in Dalmatia, his troubles with the establishment, and even made a few delicate sallies intended to gauge his opinion of the Emperor, so that it was soon quite clear he was out to cultivate this ill-used and disaffected veteran of a once-mutinous legion. 

He also seemed greatly encouraged by the fact that, to all appearances, the ill-used and disaffected veteran was also a shameless lech, and therefore exactly his sort of person. They had also taken care to drop the information that the young man calling himself Juventius was not in fact a slave, but freeborn, the errant son of a well-to-do wine merchant, leading Aelianus to laugh and remark, with great approval, that Manlius was clearly a man willing to take a risk in a worthy cause.

Cato, therefore, made sure to play his own part to the hilt, draping himself over Macro at every opportunity, making suggestive remarks, and generally playing the part of the devoted beloved, enamoured of the grizzled veteran and fussing over his old battle-scars.

And as the days went by, beneath the surface of their act, they slipped quickly back into their usual easy companionship. This came as a great relief to Cato, and not just because it lent verisimilitude to their act. He welcomed the return of Macro’s usual habit of casual punches to the shoulder and arm, which he doled out as easily as the more strategic touches he put on for the benefit of any onlookers, something familiar and reassuring in the middle of all this. The initial awkwardness between them had thawed, and Macro was back to being his old self. Not only that, but he was also more comfortable with Cato’s own attentions.

“Mmm.” He gave a low rumble of satisfaction as Cato rubbed his shoulders one afternoon in the caldarium. “I tell you something, lad, if soldiering doesn’t work out for you, you’ll have a bright future as a masseur.”

“Thanks,” said Cato, “I think.”

Macro twisted round and flashed a grin at him. At once, Cato found himself grinning back. For the first time in days, Macro’s face was open and bright, without the least shade of embarrassment, so very much _his_ Macro that Cato felt a warm, helpless rush of affection flow through him.

And with the affection came a thought: if we really were lovers, I’d kiss him now. It would be the most natural thing in the world, so much so that he could picture it clearly in his mind’s eye: how he would lean in across the short, close space between them, press his lips lightly against Macro’s forehead, just between his eyebrows, before moving lower, tilting his head to catch Macro’s lips with his own. And Macro would sense what was coming, would have already parted his lips to meet him - 

At that moment, consciousness hit him like a shield boss in the gut - consciousness of where they were and what he’d just been thinking - and with a muffled “Shit!” he jerked back, so abruptly it created a small wave that doused the poor sod just on his other side.

“Here!” the man spluttered. “What the fuck’s the matter with you?”

“Sorry, sorry!” Cato cringed. Just then, his eyes met Macro’s. The easy grin had vanished from his face, and now he was frowning, concerned.

“Cato?”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, even as a new, less comfortable heat flushed through him. “Just a bit of cramp, that’s all. I’ll be all right in a minute.”

Macro didn’t look convinced, and even when Cato turned away to the poolside and began rummaging through their things, he could still feel his friend’s gaze on him, troubled and - oddly - somehow disappointed.

-

“How goes your business with your pension?” asked Aelianus. 

Macro sneered extravagantly. “It doesn’t. Pia bloody Fidelis, my arse.”

This had the desired effect. Aelianus’ fine dark brows shot up, but he deftly concealed the interest in his face and fought it down to an expression of bland sympathy. “Indeed?”

“A shiny new title straight from the Emperor is one thing,” said Macro, “but it ain’t much use after they turf you out on your arse.”

“And after all the years Manlius has spent fighting for the Empire,” put in Cato, perfectly vacuous. Macro gave an indulgent look, squeezing his knee fondly.

“Indeed,” said Aelianus, throwing an extremely patronising smile in Cato’s direction. Macro barely suppressed a snort at that. Slimy fucker had no idea who he was dealing with.

Now the aedile returned his attention to Macro. “Truly, it’s a shocking state of affairs.” He paused, as if weighing something up in his mind, then went on, “You know, my friend, I would very much like to do something to help you. A good man with a sword can always find work in Rome, if he knows the right people.”

Macro had to exert supreme self-restraint not to leap at the opening that had just appeared in front of him. At the same time, almost as if he had sensed his excitement, Cato’s hand, which had been rubbing light circles between his shoulder blades, pressed minutely harder, in something like a warning. If this _was_ the opening they were looking for, they couldn’t afford to fuck it up…

“Oh, yeah?” he said, as if his ears had pricked up, but no more than that. “What sort of people?”

“Best we don’t talk about it here. You never know who might be listening.” Aelianus’ smile gave a sharp little quirk. “But I’ll tell you what: I meet with my clients in the morning, just after the third hour. Why don’t you come by tomorrow and we can talk it over then. I live on the Caelian, just off the Via Tusculana. Ask anyone, and they’ll point you in the right direction.”

-

“This is the best chance we’re going to get,” said Macro over their evening’s wine. “A chance to get into his house and see whatever the hell’s going on in there.” 

“Yes, well, be careful,” said Cato. “It might be just _too_ good.”

“You reckon it’s a trap?”

Cato shrugged. “I just don’t think we should take chances. Think about it: he just so happens to meet a veteran of one of Scribonianus’ old legions, a veteran down on his luck and with good reason to be pissed off at the powers that be. It must seem like a gift from the gods has just landed in his lap. There’s every possibility he might think it’s just too good to be true, and lay out an equally irresistible opening for us.”

“Bloody hell,” muttered Macro, somewhat crestfallen. “I’m going to be seeing assassins in every shadow now. Thanks, Cato.”

Cato gave a wan smile. “You mean you’re not used to it by now? Just trying to keep you alive, that’s all. Believe it or not, I quite like you, Macro.”

Macro grinned. “The feeling’s mutual, lad. And I didn’t just fall off the amphora cart yesterday. I’ll keep my eyes peeled, and if I sense anything dodgy, I’ll make a break for it. Fuck, if I’ve managed to survive all the shit Fortuna has thrown at us already, I reckon I stand a chance with this one.”

“Just make sure you do,” replied Cato, stern but smiling.

Macro laughed, then reached across the table and patted him on the arm. Just a friendly touch, no more, something he must’ve done hundreds of times before, but Cato felt it keenly, the pads of Macro’s fingers rough against his skin, raising the fine hairs. At once, he was reminded of what had happened in the baths today - though nothing _had_ happened, he reminded himself - and felt himself go hot all over again. Quickly, as if scared that Macro might somehow see his thoughts in his face, he looked down and stared into the dregs of his cup.

“Cato?” That concern in Macro’s voice again.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Think this whole bloody thing must be getting to me, is all…”

-

As promised, they had no problem finding Aelianus’ house the next morning. It was on a wide, fashionable street of posh houses and elegant gardens: a surprisingly modest-looking townhouse, its outer walls brightly limewashed, with only a few old election slogans scrawled across the front. They set out early, buying breakfast at a hot food counter and eating it on the way, but when they reached their destination, they found a sizeable crowd of petitioners already milling about outside. They had already arranged that Macro would meet Aelianus inside, while Cato did a recce of the outside of the house, so he left Cato at the shops across the road before heading over to join the crowd as it slowly - oh so bloody slowly - squeezed its way through the narrow bottleneck of the front door. 

Once inside the vestibule, he was confronted first by a rather alarming mural of Priapus, and second by a harassed-looking slave porter.

“Name?” he demanded, without ceremony. Macro gave him his alias, and the porter consulted the wax tablet in his hands. “Oh! Here we are: Gnaeus Manlius Priscus. My master asks if you would be kind enough to wait in one of the private rooms until he’s finished his audience, then he can see you alone.”

There didn’t seem much choice but to agree, so Macro gave his assent, and was quickly passed onto a discreet house-slave. He craned his head to see across the crowded atrium, and was just able to get a glimpse of Aelianus sitting in state and surrounded by various toadies, before being whisked away. He was installed in a little room a bit like a private dining-room, and given a decent warm wine while he waited, all with the assurance that the aedile would be with him shortly.

Some time after “shortly” had ceased to have any meaning, Aelianus himself appeared, all easy affability. “Manlius!” he cried, with a broad - and, Macro thought, rather triumphant - smile.

Macro got to his feet and made a decent show of deference. “Sir.”

“You found me all right, then? Good. I trust they’ve looked after you while I was tied up.”

“Can’t complain, sir.”

“Excellent! Well, now I can give you my undivided attention, and we can get down to business. Come, we’ll go to my private study.”

He led Macro down the colonnade that bordered the lush garden, and deep into a suite of rooms at the very back of the house. Macro had been taking careful note of the layout of the place from the moment he’d arrived, but he now found himself slightly unsettled by this little warren of narrow passageways and obscure cubbyholes. He remembered Cato’s warning from the night before and was grateful for the reassuring weight of his dagger, tucked securely inside his tunic.

They came to a stop outside one particular door, and Aelianus drew an iron key from a fold in his toga to unlock it, before ushering Macro inside. The aedile’s private study, he now saw, was a small, well-decorated room, most of the space taken up by a large oak desk, with one or two chairs and scroll-cases shoved wherever they would fit. The only window was a small one set high in the wall, securely barred and shuttered, and most surfaces had a lamp or two upon them to give some extra light. Cosy, Macro thought. Private. Just the sort of place to take care of any business you’d rather the world at large didn’t know about.

The thing that drew his attention above all, however, was a large iron chest that took up the entire bottom shelf of one of the scroll-cases. It hunkered there in the shadows, secured by a formidable padlock, looking shifty and incredibly interesting, but Macro was quick to hide his interest as Aelianus locked the door behind him and came to lean against the desk. He smiled, though his eyes remained cool, calculating.

“Bit hush-hush, all this, isn’t it?” said Macro, hoping his voice sounded light.

“Quite so. I find there’s some business that is just too delicate to be conducted in the main tablinum. And the business I wish to discuss with you now is of an extremely delicate and confidential nature.”

“That was definitely the impression I got, sir,” said Macro. His heart was suddenly pounding against his ribs, and he hoped to Jupiter he didn’t seem too eager. He wished, suddenly, that Cato was here with him.

“You’re a good man, Manlius, but you’ve been ill-used.”

Macro shrugged, trying to affect the manner of one who is deeply bitter, but trying hard not to show it. It must have been passable enough, for Aelianus went on:

“You served with the Seventh.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Under Governor Scribonianus?”

Warily: “Ye-es, sir…”

Aelianus smiled again, an expression clearly designed to put him at his ease, but which had the entirely opposite effect. “I mean no offence. Even here in Rome, we all heard how at the last moment, the Seventh and the Eleventh turned against the rebels and put an end to the insurrection. The Emperor was grateful enough to bestow that nice shiny title on you all.” He added, with scorn dripping from every word, “Pia Fidelis. Pious and Faithful.”

Macro gave a low grunt.

“As you said the other day,” Aelianus forged on, “a fancy title is no substitute for a material reward. This business about your pension… one might expect a soldier from a legion that had so thoroughly demonstrated its loyalty would be owed better treatment from the state. One might be tempted to think that Claudius, for all his declarations of love for his legionaries, still doesn’t quite trust the good men of the Seventh.”

“I don’t know about the politics of it, sir,” Macro muttered. “But Scribonianus promised us he’d see us right, and he _was_ a man of his word.”

“I know he was,” said Aelianus gravely. “In fact, I feel I may tell you that he was a good friend of mine.”

“That right, sir?” He did his best to look caught between caution and relief.

“He was indeed. He had a great many friends in Rome, in fact, many of whom still remember him fondly.”

Macro’s pulse was now thumping so hard he was sure Aelianus must hear it. This was incredibly dangerous talk, especially to a complete stranger. He wouldn’t be surprised if up on Palatine Hill, Narcissus’ ears had just started burning. Either Aelianus was extremely sure of his new friend Manlius, or he was about to spring an incredibly nasty surprise on him. But he couldn’t feel any cold prickling at the back of his neck, which was usually his first warning when there was danger afoot, and so he decided to proceed - carefully.

“Strange,” said Aelianus, musingly, “that the omens should’ve turned so bad at the last moment and changed the legionaries’ minds.”

“Bollocks,” spat Macro. “I don’t know what all that business with the eagles was all about, but up till then, all the omens were favourable. For all I know, some bastard might’ve bribed the priests to say they wouldn’t move.”

He had no idea what the truth of the matter was, but for all he knew, that was exactly what had happened. It sounded like exactly the sort of slick stunt that Narcissus might pull behind the scenes.

“Who knows what earthly agents the gods might use?” said Aelianus with a thin smile. “But whatever the omens might have indicated, Scribonianus had a vision for Rome. Your ongoing problem, Manlius, is just one example of the petty corruptions that are rotting our Empire from the inside out. Scribonianus knew that; he wished for change. So do his friends. Change to make Rome great once more, a state that rewards good, honest citizens, not idle bureaucrats and stuttering fools.”

By Jupiter, this bugger must take him for the worst bloody sort of chump if _this_ was the sort of spiel he meant to reel him in with. Suddenly he was glad Cato wasn’t here to hear this, after all. He could just imagine the incredulous way his eyebrows would go up, and he highly doubted he’d be able to hide it from Aelianus. That thought had him struggling to keep a smile off his own face in turn, but he was just able to reply, with great gravity, “I think I see, sir.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Aelianus, with an air of satisfaction. “Unfortunately, I’m sure you’ve heard that Claudius has a whole network of informers crawling across the Empire. Scribonianus wasn’t the only one to be crushed almost before he began.”

“I’ve heard rumours,” said Macro, drily.

“No doubt. And that’s what I hoped you would be able to help with.”

“Sir?” Cautious, but interested.

“My friends and I could do with a good man on our side. A man to help us in our aims - dependable, trustworthy, a man who knows how to take care of himself in a tricky situation. With a man like that - a man like _you_ , Manlius - we could do much, my friends and I, and not have to run the gauntlet of any imperial agents. I need hardly say,” he added, “that the rewards would go far beyond a miserable pension or a plot of rocky, unmanageable land to farm.”

“What friends?” It seemed a natural question to ask.

But even Aelianus wasn’t injudicious enough to give away all his prizes in one go. His eyes gleamed. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll let you meet them for yourself. I’m holding a little dinner party here tomorrow night, and you would be more than welcome to join us.”

“A dinner party?” Macro had no need to feign disgust.

Aelianus chuckled. “A symposium, a knees-up, whatever you’d like to call it.”

“Are you sure, sir? I mean, it all sounds a bit top drawer, and I’m… well…”

He let it hang awkwardly, but Aelianus waved the objection away at once. “Oh, nonsense. My friends will be delighted to meet you. And I promise you, we’re not a set of dull old patricians debating the merits of Thucydides all evening. I think you’ll find it most… stimulating. You could bring along that charming young lad of yours, too.” And now he gave such a blatant leer that even a Vestal Virgin could be left in no doubt what sort of party this was going to be. “Well? What do you say?”

Macro pretended to consider the matter for a minute or so before grinning back. “I’m in.”

And if you lay a fucking finger on Cato, he thought, I’ll rip your balls off with my bare hands and feed ’em to you one by one.

-

“If we keep our eyes and ears open,” said Cato, “we might be able to crack this tonight. You’re sure this study is the place we need to get to?” 

“Definitely,” said Macro. “If I had a nice big iron box like that, that’d be the place I’d keep anything I was a bit touchy about any agents of Narcissus seeing. Looks like Aelianus keeps the key on him, but I reckon together we could break the door in.”

Cato nodded. “We’ll have to play it by ear, I suppose, but it’s not some formal dinner party, so I imagine once the wine’s flowing and people start looking for places to - well, do whatever they’re going to do, we should find it easy enough to move about without attracting suspicion.”

“Oh, yeah?” Macro grinned at him. “Know a lot about orgies, do you?”

Cato smiled back. “I know the theory.”

His father had shielded him from the worst of it, of course, but even so, you didn’t grow up in the imperial household under Tiberius and Caligula without seeing at least a few things you wished you hadn’t.

Soon enough, they were ready to go. Macro was dressed as usual, in hobnailed boots and a worn old military tunic, covered with an equally rough old cloak: the very picture of a down-on-his-luck legionary who’d been given the boot before his time. As always, it was up to Cato to make the most effort with his costume. After some rummaging through the bundle from Drusillus upstairs, he’d finally settled for another skimpy, wine-coloured thing that even a seasoned Baiae whore would probably consider a bit much. He didn’t think anything could ever make him nostalgic for the ill-fitting army-issue tat he had to wear in the legions, but this mission was definitely putting him that way. He also entertained a suspicion that breeches were rather against the dress code for this sort of party. So, with a sense of grim fatalism, he pulled the garment over his head and belted the light girdle about his waist.

“All right, I’m ready.” He turned, and his pulse gave a sudden leap as he realised Macro was staring at him. “Macro?”

“Are you sure about this?” Macro asked.

“About what? The tunic?”

“Not the bloody tunic, you fool,” cried Macro, ears going pink. “No, sure about _this_?” He made a broad gesture that Cato took to mean their mission in general.

He raised an eyebrow. “Bit late to be asking that now, isn’t it?” But the deepening frown on Macro’s face shut him up. He looked extremely, openly worried, and as his eyes met Cato’s again, Cato realised it was all worry on his account.

“What if something happens? What if things get… tricky?”

“Tricky how?”

Incredibly, a dark flush surfaced in Macro’s face - embarrassment, irritation, or maybe even a combination of them both. “You bloody well know what I mean. I’m all right, no dirty old bastard’s going to try it on with me. But you - well, you’re young and… fresh-faced. You’re just the sort some dirty old goat might try and back into a corner.”

Cato laughed. “Thanks for the warning, but I _can_ look after myself all right, you know.”

Despite the absurdly fragile cloth of the tunic, he had contrived to tuck his dagger inside, just in case he needed it. But before he could mention that, Macro stunned him into silence by closing the space between them in two strides, grasping him roughly by the arms, and looking urgently up into his face.

“This is serious, Cato,” he said, voice low and furious. “We’re about to dive right into the snake-pit, and I don’t trust that lousy bastard Aelianus as far as I can spit. The gods only know what sort of like-minded perverts he pals around with. So you fucking stick close to me all the time we’re in that house, and if it looks for a moment like things are getting too hot for us, we get the fuck out of there, I don’t care what that bastard Narcissus thinks. And if any old lech tries to put his hands where he shouldn’t, you just raise hell and I’ll come running. All right?”

Startled as he was, it was a moment or two before Cato managed to speak. The expression in Macro’s eyes was nothing short of ferocious, and his fingers felt like they must be pressing blunt bruises into his upper arms.

Somehow, that made him smile. “All right.”

-

As it happened, sticking close to Macro all night turned out to be both a reassurance and a form of torture. 

Night had fallen by the time they arrived at Aelianus’ house, and the wine had already been flowing for some time. From the atrium to the peristyle garden, guests lolled about in their couches, bedecked in garlands, most of them already well on their way to being completely shitfaced. Pillars and statues had been wound about with ivy and vine-leaves, presumably in some attempt to suggest an Arcadian grove, and embarrassed-looking slaves, wreathed in the same, circulated between the couches with wineskins and little platters of peppered truffles and candied fruits, all while being subjected to lewd advances by the diners. Musicians, strategically placed in various corners, played tune after exotic tune that mingled with the heavy perfumed air. Lamps flickered with soft golden light that danced and writhed, casting wavering veils of shadow into the corners, which to most of the revellers probably suggested clandestine encounters and illicit pleasures. To Cato, all senses alert for the merest sign of anything suspicious, it more readily suggested hidden assassins and places where the odd murder might be discreetly committed. Even in middle of that hot, sultry atmosphere, he shivered.

It was far too early to start getting on edge, however, so he turned his attention back to Macro, who was sitting rather rigidly on their shared couch, looking supremely awkward. Not that this was necessarily a bad thing: actually, it seemed quite in-character for Gnaeus Manlius Priscus, late of the Seventh Legion. This, combined with the garland of flowers that a slave had planted on his head when they arrived, had a rather comical effect, and Cato couldn’t help chuckling at the sight of him.

At once, Macro turned a scowl on him. “What’s so damned funny?”

Cato smirked, then reached out to adjust the angle of the garland. “You’ve never looked more beautiful, darling.”

Macro’s scowl tightened, but his face flamed an impressive shade of crimson that undermined the effect, and only made Cato laugh harder. Gods, either it was the wine or the air in here, but something was getting to him.

Remembering the part he was supposed to be playing, he flagged down a passing slave and took his little plate off him. He shot Macro a pointed look, and held a little honey-glazed cake to his lips. “Open wide.”

“For fuck’s sake,” muttered Macro, but parted his lips enough to let Cato push it gently between them, breath warm against his fingertips.

As he swallowed the cake, Macro settled back and pulled Cato with him. Cato slipped into his lap, and with a significant look, put his arms about his neck. To anyone who bothered to pay attention to them, they’d look like they were simply canoodling, but the position had the advantage that it allowed them to scope out the room in opposite directions, and Cato now cast a discreet look over Macro’s shoulder.

“Any sign of our benevolent host?” he said, turning his head into the crook of Macro’s neck in order to murmur into his ear. Through the perfumed fug, he was just able to catch the faint tang of sweat against his skin.

Macro’s hands tightened a little about his waist, then he replied, “Not yet. Gods only know what the slimy bugger’s up to.”

“He’ll show up,” said Cato. “If he wants to recruit you to do his dirty work for him, he’ll want to keep an eye on you.”

A sudden clash of cymbals made everyone jump, and introduced a new floor show, as a troupe of dancers - male and female, and all wearing even less than he was - cavorted through the atrium, weaving between the couches and nimbly avoiding the central pool. From what Cato could make out, it appeared to be a mime-dance of the Rape of the Sabine Women. The unusually willing and enthusiastic Sabine Women. It was greeted with uproarious glee by the guests, and Cato took advantage of the distraction to slip away to see if he could find Aelianus out in the garden or one of the adjoining rooms. But he came up short and was soon forced to return to the atrium, bringing fresh wine to furnish an excuse for slipping away.

“Here.” He nudged Macro and pressed a cup into his hands. Macro took a deep quaff, then broke into an explosion of violent spluttering.

“You call this wine?” he exclaimed, aggrieved - and, unfortunately, loud enough to make several heads turn in their direction. “More fucking water in this than a British summertime.”

Cato, aware that they were now inviting attention, gave a loud twitter of laughter. “Darling, you know what happens when you mix your wine too strong. You’re no good to me flopping around like a dead fish.”

This drew a burst of laughter from those close to hand and, despite his smirk, Cato breathed an inward sigh of relief. Macro’s face flamed all over again, and a look of pure evil appeared in his eyes, before he quickly remembered himself and plastered a grin on his face. “Come here, you.” He reached out a hand, and Cato let himself be drawn into his now-familiar place on his knee. Their spectators, the joke now over, now turned away and returned their attention to the dancers. But Macro still kept his face turned into the curve of Cato’s neck, breath hot against his ear as he whispered, “When we get out of here, lad, I’m going to kick you square in the balls for that one.”

Cato’s grin this time was genuine.

It was also short-lived, for the floor show had barely turned from the enthusiastic Sabines to a rather unorthodox interpretation of the Trojan Wars, when there came a shout of “Manlius!” and they turned to see Aelianus making his way towards them at last. Nor was he alone: each arm was slung around a girl wearing a costume not unlike Cato’s, and beside him was a nondescript middle-aged man already half out of his toga.

“Oh!” Quickly, Macro disentangled Cato and hauled himself up into a proper sitting position. “Magistrate Aelianus, sir!”

“How are you finding our revels?” Aelianus gestured expansively to the ever-livening debauchery.

“Oh…” Macro shifted with unfeigned awkwardness, but put a brave face on it. “All right. Bit different from the legions.”

Aelianus grinned. “I don’t doubt it. I wish to introduce you to a friend of mine.” Removing a hand from one of the girls, he gestured to the man with the toga. “Tiberius Claudius Heraclitus. Heraclitus, this is Manlius, that excellent veteran of the Seventh I was telling you about, and his particular friend, young Juventius.”

“Delighted to meet you.” Heraclitus bowed his head. “Aelianus has told me so much about you already. 

He smiled at them, and the moment his eyes met Cato’s, Cato felt a shock of recognition. He barely managed to keep back a cry; instead, seeing no other way out, he burrowed his face into Macro’s shoulder, which made Aelianus laugh aloud.

“What’s this, Juventius? Come over all shy? I never would’ve thought it of you.”

Cato had felt Macro stiffen very slightly at his reaction, but he rallied admirably: “Don’t you believe it, sir! Just playing hard to get, ain’t you, lad?” He slung an affectionate arm round Cato’s waist.

“Oh, I’m sure none of us have any intention of stealing you away, my boy,” said Aelianus, so breezily that Cato thought he’d better watch his back. “Anyway, Manlius, my friend Heraclitus here is one of those I was telling you about yesterday - one of the ones who might be able to help you to some work.”

“Oh. That’s good.”

“But let’s not mix business with pleasure just now, eh? We’ll all have plenty of time to get acquainted later. In the meantime, Manlius, just you and your young man enjoy yourselves. Come, Heraclitus.”

They disappeared back into the throng, leaving Macro and Cato alone once more. The flutists nearby were playing a lively tune, but even so, Macro waited till Aelianus and company were well towards the other side of the room before saying, in a low voice, “All right, coast’s clear. What’s got you so spooked?”

“That man,” Cato replied. He dared cast a glance over Macro’s shoulder at Heraclitus, and felt a chill go through him as, almost as if he’d felt Cato’s eyes on him, he glanced briefly back in their direction. He quickly turned his face against Macro’s cheek. “I know him. He’s a freedman in the imperial household.”

“What?” Macro went rigid. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

Macro sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Bloody hell. So Narcissus was right to be paranoid about sending in agents from his own staff. Do you think he recognised you?”

Cato shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but… Macro, this is too dangerous. We need to get this over and done with as quickly as possible. First chance we get, we have to get out of here and into his study.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” said Macro darkly. “Fuck, that’s all we need. Familiar bloody faces to get us rumbled.”

“Could be worse,” Cato joked weakly. “It could’ve been Vitellius.”

-

Their first chance to get out of there was a long time in coming. Though they both kept a careful lookout, it was nearly impossible to find an opportunity to slip away unnoticed, even in the middle of the rout. Worse, Aelianus stopped by their couch more than once to check on his legionary stooge, hinting at the benefits that came with throwing in one’s lot with him, and making a fuss over “Juventius”, who was growing more and more nervous by nervousness was only increased by their surroundings. As the night stretched on and on into the wee hours, what faint veneer of respectability there had been was gradually shed - along with most of the participants’ garments and inhibitions. Couples tangled together on the couches, and everywhere they looked was a sea of naked flesh, straining and gleaming in the lamplight, and the music now had to compete with the accompanying moans and groans. 

Determined that they should keep clear heads, Cato had kept their wine liberally thinned with water, much to Macro’s disgust, but even so, the heady Nilotic atmosphere seemed to get into his blood: a cloying, sinuous undercurrent that snaked through his veins, a constant flow of heat, until he felt restless and on edge in a way he wasn’t sure had much to do with nerves. The sensation was only heightened by the press of Macro’s body against his: he could feel the heat of Macro’s skin clearly through the wool of his tunic, and everywhere they brushed together seemed to scorch him.

It was like a welcome douse of icy water, therefore, when he happened to glance up, and caught sight of Aelianus across the room, intensely preoccupied with the two girls from before.

“Macro,” he hissed, elbowing him in the side. “Macro!”

Macro muttered something incomprehensible, stirring from the stupor he’d been steadily dropping off into. “Eh? What -?”

“Over there. Looks like Aelianus has his hands full. We should go - now.”

Macro was alert at once. There were some instincts, honed over seventeen years in the legions, that even an orgy couldn’t dull. He raised his head, saw Aelianus, and gave a single, terse nod. “Right you are. Let’s move out.”

Cato had already had plenty of time to plan for this moment. Making sure his movements were as leisurely as possible, he slid to his feet and with his best come-hither smile, put out a hand to help Macro to his feet. Macro flashed him a rather wobbly grin, then straightened his shoulders and led the way.

Crossing the atrium was a fraught affair, and to Cato’s anxious mind it seemed to take hours. It was slow-going, partly because they were doing their best to look nonchalant, and partly because their path was strewn with bodies. The line between guests and floor show had long ago dissolved, many diners taking the place of dancers whose services had been commandeered for other purposes, and as well as amorous couples, the atrium was full of drunkenly reeling bodies. More than once, some stray limb would fly out and nearly slug one of them in the face, a situation that became even worse when two guests got into a fight over the favours of a handsome dancing-boy, and a minor fracas blew up in one corner. It was the most painstaking progress across hostile terrain Cato had ever made, and he found himself indescribably grateful for the warm, rough pressure of Macro’s hand in his as they went.

At long last, they made it out onto the colonnade. The festivities had spilled out into the gardens, and by the flickering light of the torches, it was plain to see that a good many of the partygoers were enjoying their diversions al fresco.

“This way,” whispered Macro, jabbing a thumb towards the rear of the house, and they picked their way along the peristyle, keeping as much as possible to the shadows. At last they came to a doorway leading off the colonnade, and into the narrow passage beyond. Almost at once, everything fell quiet. The sounds of music and ecstatic voices drifted faintly back on the warm night air, now suddenly quite remote and unimportant.

With a sigh of relief, Cato let himself slump back against the cool stucco wall and smiled at Macro. His face was half-hidden in the dim passage, but even so, Cato could see the grim determination in his expression.

“Come on, Cato, let’s not rest on our laurels now.”

He pulled him along, and Cato followed him further down the passage. By now, the sounds of the party were extremely faint, and though they went softly, the scraping of their feet on the plain stone floors sounded intrusively loud in the heavy silence.

“You remember where to go?” he asked in a low voice.

“Course I bloody do,” Macro shot irritably back. “It’s this way.”

At last he stopped before a door, tucked away in some obscure corner of the house. “This is it. You keep watch, make sure no bugger disturbs us.”

While Cato looked up and down the passage, Macro tried the door. “Locked. Thought it might be.”

“Don’t suppose you thought to nab a key when you were here last time?” murmured Cato, narrowing his eyes at a flickering shadow towards the end of the corridor.

“Shut up. Just keep looking that way. _Now_ …”

A colossal bang made Cato jump, and he spun round just in time to see Macro drawing his foot away from the door.

“What the hell are you doing?” he hissed. “Do you want to bring everyone in the house down this way?”

“You got a better idea?” Macro retorted, before following this up with another kick that set Cato’s teeth on edge and had him looking wildly about in case the sound brought anyone running. But it seemed that Aelianus was determined to keep his private study as private as possible, because the lock refused to yield even to Macro’s hobnailed army boots.

“Fuck me,” he puffed.

“Not a very appropriate thing for an erastes to say,” said Cato.

“Sod you, Cato.”

“Better.”

“If you don’t shut the fuck up -” 

But Cato never heard the substance of the implied threat, for just at that moment, a noise round the next corner made them fall silent. As they listened, tensed there in the gloom, it came again: soft and slow, but unmistakably the sound of footsteps.

“Shit!” Macro hissed. “Back up round the corner.”

He yanked Cato back - Cato dimly realising that his hand had still been in Macro’s all this time - and together they scrambled back up the passage. But before they could reach the relative safety of the peristyle, a burly shadow appeared round the corner and paused before the study door.

“Shit,” said Macro under his breath, and his hand tightened on Cato’s. “It’s that big Gaulish bastard. Aelianus must’ve put him on guard duty.”

“He’s coming this way,” Cato said unnecessarily, as the burly shadow now began to move again, all but blocking out the faint glim of lamplight from the bracket behind.

“Oh fuck,” hissed Macro. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Cato, do something!”

“ _Me?_ ” Cato hissed back, incredulous.

“You’re the one with the brains, lad. Quick now!”

The heavy footsteps were getting closer. In another second or two, the big Gaulish bastard would be right on top of them. Cato glanced desperately about for an escape route, saw none - then, just as the figure emerged from the shadows, he did the first thing that came into his head, seized Macro’s face between his hands, and dragged it up to his own.

It was like a lit taper dropped in a pool of oil. At once, the heat that had been simmering in the pit of Cato’s stomach all night flared white, racing through his limbs and bursting behind his eyes. Dimly, he heard - no, _felt_ \- Macro’s muffled grunt of surprise, then Macro’s hands were coming up to his shoulders, anchoring him firmly against the wall as he kissed him roughly back. His lips were warm and remarkably soft, softer than Cato would ever have imagined of him, and felt so incredibly good against his own that in one astonishing moment of revelation, Cato was finally able to identify the strange tension that had been brooding between them all this time. _Desire._

Somehow, through all of this, he had just enough presence of mind left to be aware that the Gaul had now drawn level with them. The heavy footsteps paused, then there came a snort, and a thickly-accented scoff: “Fucking Romans. Fucking animals, the lot of ’em.”

Then he was gone, stalking off round the corner, out onto the colonnade, and away. As soon as the coast was clear, Cato and Macro broke their kiss with a gasp. But they didn’t pull away. For a small eternity, it seemed, they simply stared at each other, breathing hard as if they’d just completed a full route march at a run. Cato’s lips were tingling, his heart was pounding, and in Macro’s eyes, wide in the dim light, he could see the same look of stunned realisation that he knew at once must be reflected in his own.

“Macro, I…”

Words failed him, but it didn’t matter, for in that exact moment, Macro suddenly surged forward and pulled him down into another kiss. Now it was Cato’s turn to utter a cry, hotly swallowed up by Macro’s mouth. Rough fingers curled tightly in his hair, pulling him in, and he was clinging to Macro’s arms, fingers twisting in the short sleeves of his tunic. By some unspoken agreement, their lips parted, the kiss deepened, and he was lost in the heat and exhilaration of it all. Macro’s tongue thrust against his, firm and wet and tasting faintly still of Falernian, and as they clung and pressed and gasped together, Cato realised - with a shock like a thunderclap - that he was hard, actually hard - and more to the point, that so was Macro, the jut of his erection hot and insistent against Cato’s thigh.

Before either of them really knew what they were doing, they were stumbling back, each half-dragging the other, hardly seeing where they went because neither of them could bring themselves to let go of each other for so much as a minute. A doorway led off just on their left-hand side: they nearly tore the curtain off its rings as they stumbled through it. In the swift glance he was able to spare it, Cato saw that they were in a small receiving room of some sort, fitfully lit by the lamp in the passage outside. Then Macro backed down onto the couch just inside the door, pulled Cato down on top of him, and everything else ceased to matter.

He stretched his body out on top of Macro’s on the couch, and Macro groaned deeply as his weight settled over him, their bodies shifting and moulding together, one of Cato’s legs pressing between Macro’s until they were fully entwined, each pressed close against the other. 

Cato slid his hands down the length of Macro’s arms, and felt a flare of excitement as he felt the straining of raw muscles beneath his skin. At the same time, Macro succeeded in slipping his tunic free from one of Cato’s shoulders, covering the exposed curve with his mouth. Cato gasped, every inch of his skin seeming to shiver with the sensation, and he bent his head, seeking Macro’s mouth for another kiss, then another, until they were both panting hard, lungs aching, the air between them hot and thick.

“Cato…” Macro rasped into his mouth, before his name dissolved into another groan. “Fucking hell, _Cato_ …”

Somewhere right at the back of Cato’s brain, whatever last remnant of common sense still clung on was telling him that this was sheer madness, that they had a job to do, that this was about the most dangerous place he could’ve decided he wanted to screw his best friend, and if anyone, Aelianus or any of his minions, caught them like this, they were done for…

Then he shifted, and the brush of his cock against Macro’s, even through the interposing layers of their tunics, sent an ache pulsing through him, and as Macro cursed and clutched him harder, that decided him.

Without stopping to think twice, he pressed down on Macro’s shoulder with one hand, pinning him to the couch, then with his free hand slid down, smiling as he let his fingers drift lightly, teasingly, down Macro’s chest and across his stomach, before grasping the hem of his tunic and throwing it back. Realising what he was doing, Macro’s eyes flew open.

“Cato…”

Cato smiled, and slowly undid Macro’s loincloth. Then there was his cock, stiff and swollen dark against its nest of rough hair. As it was exposed to the air, Macro gave a hiss. He groaned out Cato’s name again, but whatever else he meant to say was lost in a sharp moan, and his eyes rolled back as Cato took him firmly in hand. Cato had to choke back a moan of his own at the feel of him, hard and hot and pulsing in his hand, then twisted his wrist and stroked again, making Macro utter a slurred succession of curses, hips straining up into his fist. Fascinated, he did it again, before applying himself with rapt concentration to the task literally in hand. The angle was slightly different from when he did this to himself, but he quickly got the hang of it, and in no time at all he had Macro bucking beneath him, fists clutched white-knuckled in the cushions, broad chest heaving with exertion.

“Don’t you fucking dare take your hand away,” he growled, when Cato slowed his strokes, “or I’ll bloody well cut it off.”

“Bit counter-productive, wouldn’t you say?” murmured Cato, but it was only a half-hearted quip. He was too dazed to carry on much of a conversation, too awestruck by how breathtakingly Macro responded to his touch. He redoubled his efforts, stroking and squeezing, now fast, now slow, learning which places were best to press to get the best reactions, where best to give a twist, until Macro suddenly arched his back on the couch, let loose a string of incomprehensible curses, and spilled in a hot rush over Cato’s hand.

After a few moments the tension ebbed out of him, and he collapsed against the couch with a deep, rushing sigh. His eyes were still closed, his upper lip beaded with sweat, and Cato felt his heart twist with emotion just to look at him.

Then Macro cracked one eye open and shot out a hand. “Come here, you.”

In a sudden movement, he sat up, feet planted firmly on the floor, and drew Cato over to straddle his thigh, hands pressing into the small of his back to pull them fast together. And as he did, Cato’s attention was recalled to the pressure of his own cock, aching with increased urgency.

“Macro,” he cracked out, but Macro shushed him - uncharacteristically gentle - before reaching under his tunic to loosen his loincloth, just as Cato had done to him. As the constricting cloth fell away, Cato gasped at the warmth of Macro’s skin against his cock, and unable to help himself, he rocked against it, hissing through clenched teeth as it sent a bright thrill of heat up his spine.

Then he was entirely given up to his baser instincts, grasping hold of Macro’s shoulders and burrowing into the curve of his body, chasing that exquisite sensation of skin against skin. The hem of Macro’s tunic was rucked up, baring the place where his thigh met his hip, and almost of its own volition, Cato’s cock slid into the warm crease. He groaned, loud enough that it would have embarrassed him if he’d had any inhibitions left, and then he was moving, rocking his hips into the tight, sweat-slick space, bending his head over to smother his cries in Macro’s neck.

“Macro,” he gasped out, not knowing what it was he was asking for, just _more_ -

“That’s it, lad.” Macro’s hands dropped to his arse, holding him firmly, urging him on. “That’s it. Almost there…” Over and over again, as Cato abandoned himself to the pleasure and the promise of release. His thrusts grew wilder, and he’d lost control of himself utterly, but it was all right, because it was Macro’s voice in his ear, Macro’s hands holding him, Macro would make sure he came through it all right… and that was the thought that sustained him as he gave one last desperate thrust, which pushed him right over the edge at last. He came with a hoarse shout, his whole body going rigid as he was caught in the middle of all that sensation. Then he collapsed on top of Macro and sent them both sprawling back onto the couch.

They lay in a tangle of limbs, gasping for breath, neither of them able to speak. Cato had one hand thrown out across Macro’s chest, and he could feel how his heart raced beneath his palm, a perfect echo of Cato’s own. It made him smile, and he let his head rest against Macro’s shoulder, losing himself in a pleasant daze.

It didn’t last long, however, for after some time - he wasn’t exactly sure how long - Macro stirred and murmured, “Cato?”

Something in Macro’s voice, some strange tension, broke through Cato’s drowse at once, and his eyes flew open to meet Macro’s, looking at him with a faint frown. And all at once, the last hazy remnants of pleasure drained away, replaced by the stark realisation of where they were and what they’d just done, and his heart gave a sick lurch in his chest.

“Macro -”

But before he could get any further, Macro’s expression changed, and with a swift “Sssh!” he pressed a finger to his lips and looked towards the door. Cato listened too, but there was a sudden rush of blood in his ears, so it was a moment or two before he heard it. Footsteps. Not the heavy tread of the Gaul, but lighter, softer, much more furtive.

“Wait here,” said Macro. While Cato struggled to sit up and pull his tunic straight again, he hauled himself off the couch and crept to the doorway, moving the curtain silently aside just far enough to peer out.

“Who is it?” Cato asked, fighting to keep his voice low.

“It’s Aelianus,” Macro whispered.

That brought Cato well and truly back to his senses. “Is he on his own?” he asked, swinging his legs over the side of the couch, ready to jump into action at a moment’s notice.

Macro glanced back, then nodded. “Yeah. Looks like he’s heading for the study. Perfect time to jump him, I reckon.”

“Wait,” said Cato quickly, getting to his feet. “I have an idea. He might be able to get us into the study without kicking up a fuss. Follow me, but try to keep out of sight.”

Macro’s mouth opened, but rather than stay to answer any more questions, Cato slipped quickly out of the doorway and peered down the passage. Sure enough, there was Aelianus, heading in the direction of his private study. He was quite alone now, and he went in such a slow, creeping fashion that Cato sensed at once he must be about some business unconnected with the evening’s bacchanal. He gestured to Macro, who followed at a safe distance as he trailed Aelianus, keeping as much to the shadows as possible. As Aelianus reached the door to his study, however, he paused, and turned to peer back up the passage.

“Who’s there?” he asked sharply.

With a significant look to Macro, Cato drew a breath and stepped out of the shadows, forcing a smile onto his face. At the sight of him, some of the tension left Aelianus’ manner - though he didn’t let his guard down completely - and a slow smile came over his face.

“Ah. The ‘little flower of the Juventii’. What are you doing here?”

Cato shrugged, keeping his movements lithe and careless. “Maybe I got lost.”

Aelianus eyed him with undisguised amusement - and more besides. “And lost Manlius as well, by the look of it.”

Another shrug. “Not my fault if the old man can’t keep up with me.” 

He tried not to imagine what face Macro must be making in the shadows behind him.

Aelianus chuckled, low and insinuating. “And now you’re looking for other company.”

Cato did his best to match him leer for leer. “Something like that.”

He felt hideously self-conscious of what sort of state he was in, rumpled and tousled in a way that couldn’t possibly be misinterpreted, his tunic half falling off, smelling of sweat and sex. But it seemed to meet with Aelianus’ approval, for he eyed him with renewed appreciation, and laughed again.

“I never did know a catamite who knew the meaning of the word fidelity.”

“So?” Cato raised an eyebrow. “Does that mean you want to, or not?”

“Well, I did have some business to attend to -” Then, as Cato’s smile broadened, “But why not? I’m sure it can wait. Come on, my room is quite private.”

He made to turn away, but Cato quickly came forward and caught him by the arm. “Oh no! Isn’t there somewhere more handy? What if Manlius finds us? He has such a terrible temper, you know.”

Aelianus’ gaze swivelled to the locked door of the study, and Cato saw the brief struggle in his face, before lust won out over discretion, and he turned back with a rather wolfish smile.

“Well, if you insist…”

Casting a quick glance up and down the passage, he brought out the key from his toga, unlocked the door - and promptly froze as Macro materialised from the shadows and pressed the point of his dagger into his back.

“Not one fucking sound out of you, magistrate sir,” he growled.

“What is this?” Aelianus’ voice was a strangled rasp. He turned to Cato. “Juventius?”

“That’s Centurion Cato to you,” Macro snarled. “I’m Centurion Macro, and right now, your worst fucking nightmare.”

“Quick,” said Cato, drawing his own dagger and seeing Aelianus’ face go waxy in the dim light, “get him inside.”

Together, they bundled Aelianus into the study. While Macro shoved him with no particular ceremony into a chair, Cato hurried to light a lamp and lock the door behind them. He didn’t want to risk them being disturbed too soon. As he turned back to Aelianus, he saw that the aedile’s face, though still rather grey, had lost the first slackness of shock, and he was now making a creditable show of haughty defiance, straightening his spine and looking down his long nose at them.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” snarled Macro, sticking his dagger under his nose. “The game’s up, Aelianus. We know exactly what sort of outfit you’re involved in. Cato, lad, there’s the box over there.” He gestured with a jerk of his head to the shelf with the iron chest, and Cato wasted no time in hauling it out.

“So that’s it, then,” said Aelianus, lip curling in a sneer. “You’re nothing but common informers.”

“Guess again,” said Macro. “We’re a pair of soldiers who are sick and fucking tired of getting mixed up in all you politicos’ games, and just want to get this the hell over with. How are you coming on, Cato?”

“He’s got it locked up tighter than the Temple of Saturn,” Cato replied, having seen the padlock and now rummaging vainly through the aedile’s desk. He even searched under it and patted the legs, looking for hidden compartments, before turning to Aelianus. “Where’s the key?”

Aelianus’ brows rose, and his only response was to press his lips conspicuously together and lean idly back. Macro growled.

“Listen, you snaky bastard, I’m not going to say it’ll go easier for you if you co-operate. The gods know, Narcissus is probably itching to personally crucify you and your mates by your knackers either way. But if you play nice, I might just be persuaded not to take you apart for trying to take liberties with my friend here.”

“That’s touching,” said Cato mildly. He glanced up from the desk, and his gaze met Macro’s in a brief grin, before he returned his attention to Aelianus and asked again, colder now: “Where’s the key?”

Whether it was the mention of Narcissus that did it, or Macro looming over him, Aelianus gave way, and with a sigh of defeat he replied, “Under the floor. The eagle’s head…”

Cato glanced at the mosaic on the floor, and saw, just by the desk, a soaring eagle picked out in yellow and copper-coloured tiles. He crouched down to examine it, and saw that, sure enough, round about its head, a small square had been delineated. It was no more than a hairline scratch between the tiles, so fine that it was doubtful anyone would ever notice it unless they already knew it was there. He prised it up with the point of his dagger, and found underneath a tiny, wood-lined compartment with a heavy iron key within. Scooping it up, he brought it straight to the iron box and fitted it in the lock. After a bit of fiddling and swearing under his breath, he finally succeeded in getting it open, and while Macro continued to stand guard over Aelianus, he lifted the lid and peered inside.

The chest, he now saw, was full of various bits of correspondence, scrolls and wax tablets. He lifted some out and peered at them, but even a cursory examination showed that they had all been written in some kind of code, which he didn’t have the time to have a crack at just now. However, several of them looked like they just might comprise lists of names and, once deciphered by Narcissus, they would surely reveal a whole wealth of intelligence. There were also various maps, with notes on various troop placements throughout the Empire, and several pouches full of enough gold aurei to fund a whole slew of bribes and coups.

“Well,” he said, kneeling back and locking the chest again, “I think Narcissus will be very interested in this haul.”

“Well played,” said Aelianus coolly, as Macro hauled him roughly to his feet, “but how on earth do you expect to get out of here to tell the tale? I have Diogenes patrolling the house even as we speak; it’s only a matter of time before his rounds bring him back here.”

Cato smiled. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. My friend here is a dab hand at starting riots that bring the watch running in no time. Care to do the honours, Macro?”

“With pleasure,” said Macro, with a grin. “Just first things first…”

And without further ado, he jammed his knee up with unforgiving precision into the aedile’s groin.

-

Dawn was a pink blush on the eastern skyline, barely creeping over the roofs of the houses and seeping into the pearly-grey sky. The rumble of the night traffic had died away, and now the streets of the Aventine were coming to life with the sounds of tradesmen opening their shops, the clank and rattle from the workshops, and the rich smells wafting up from the bakers’ shops and food stalls. At the window of their rickety little apartment room, Macro and Cato sat looking out, tired and unshaven, a jar of warm mulsum and a warm loaf of floury bread between them. It was the first proper thing they’d had to eat for hours after apprehending Aelianus - and after that, being discreetly spirited away by an officer in the city watch to report to Narcissus at once. The iron box and all the secrets it contained were now securely in the possession of the Imperial Secretary, and neither of them doubted that he would take full advantage of the information, once he knew what it was. 

“He’ll have his hands full with that lot,” Cato mused. “If Heraclitus was one of Aelianus’ associates, you can bet there’ll be other imperial freedmen in it with him. Narcissus is going to have a hell of a job weeding them out.”

“Well, that’s his business,” replied Macro. “We did what we were told to do, and there’s no way he can refuse us a posting now. We went above and bloody beyond for him this time.”

Cato made no reply to this, and Macro glanced at him out the tail of his eye. He was gazing quite determinedly out the window, out towards where a distant flock of pigeons had suddenly fluttered up from the roof of the Temple of Minerva, but Macro had the suspicion that he wasn’t really seeing them. 

From the moment they’d rumbled Aelianus, the intervening hours had been full of urgent activity, and this was the first moment they’d had alone together. Now they sat in unaccustomed silence, a silence that was full of their shared memory of what had happened between them, this unspoken new awareness of each other, all of it raw and uncertain. And now, glancing at Cato’s face, still doggedly not looking at him, Macro was seized by the uncomfortable thought that maybe the lad was regretting what had happened. It seemed imperative for him, then, to break the silence, and he cursed inwardly. This was not a position he’d ever found himself in before, and he found himself suddenly terrified at the thought of saying the wrong thing.

“Listen, Cato,” he began, scratching awkwardly behind his ear, “about what happened…” Then he fell off, completely at a loss.

But now Cato turned to him and replied, in an oddly sharp voice, “You mean when we screwed each other silly?”

Macro felt the heat rush to his face. “Aren’t you a regular bloody Cicero. But all right, yes. That.”

Was it his imagination, or was there wariness in Cato’s face? “What about it?”

So many things, but somehow Macro couldn’t find the words to come at them. “It’s all right, you know, if it’s not what you want. We were pretty sloshed, and considering where we were… well, if you don’t want to do it again… no hard feelings, and all that.”

He winced. He was making a regular balls-up of this.

“Does that mean you regret it?” Cato asked.

“No!” he returned at once - and he meant it. Truth be told, he was still dumbfounded by the whole thing. He’d never thought of himself as - well, as a man’s man. Definitely not that sort, anyway. But looking at Cato now, at the intensely familiar set of his features, all the subtle, well-known quirks in his expression, he felt his heart turn over in his chest, filling him with a bright flush of affection. Affection - and not a little guilt. When he was with Boudica, he’d been almost painfully aware of the gap between his age and hers, and Cato was even younger, not even twenty. So much for all his talk about protecting him from dirty old men.

But even beyond that was the fear that if Cato thought it had been a mistake, then it could bugger up the closest friendship he’d ever had, a friendship that meant even more to him than he’d realised - perhaps more than either of them had realised - till now. Cato had wound himself inextricably into Macro’s existence. Even during these last few months, after their time in Ravenna, after the shock of finding his mother again, and the truth about his father, Cato had been the one thing in his life that had seemed solid, the one thing keeping his head screwed on. He honestly couldn’t imagine what he’d do without him now. Narcissus, damn him, had been right on the money when he’d said they were inseparable.

He exhaled in a huge gust, then squared his shoulders and met Cato’s gaze head-on. Whatever lay ahead for them, he’d face it like a man.

“No,” he said, “I don’t regret it, lad. Not unless you do.”

A slow, wondering smile lit up Cato’s face, and Macro’s pulse hitched at the sight of it. “And I distinctly remember you once telling me, on no uncertain terms, that I wasn’t to take you for - what was it again? Some sort of arse bandit?”

“Well,” Macro grinned, despite himself, “you’re the one who made a big production out of how you don’t do that sort of thing.”

“True.” Cato’s smile quirked. “Looks like I’ll have to revise that a bit.”

They laughed, and just like that, the odd uncertain tension was dispelled, replaced once more by their old, easy rapport.

No, thought Macro, not their old rapport. Something even better, something exciting and even a bit frightening, with new depths and a new, transformed understanding of one another.

Unable to resist, Macro leaned in to catch Cato’s lips with his own, and a wonderful warmth swept through him as he felt Cato press back in response. Even when the kiss came to an end and they broke away, he reached out and cupped Cato’s cheek with one hand, letting his thumb brush along the curve of his cheekbone. Cato smiled, and brought his own hand up to cover his.

“I don’t know,” said Macro, shaking his head. “I reckon Venus must be taking the piss, but whatever it is, I know I can’t bloody well live without you, Cato.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” said Cato with a soft laugh.

“So we’re all right, then?”

Cato nodded, and leaned in again. “We’re all right.”


End file.
